


i called your name 'til the fever broke

by lady_romanov



Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Biting, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Sitting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Praise Kink, Shameless Smut, Tenderness, Wall Sex, geralt has no braincells to rub together in this one, geralt is never going back to posada ever again, this was supposed to be straight up sex and then geralt got all tender on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29553522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_romanov/pseuds/lady_romanov
Summary: All together, it isn't a terrible way to spend the summer.And the Posada happens.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645501
Comments: 22
Kudos: 265





	i called your name 'til the fever broke

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise bitch. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. 
> 
> But seriously, sorry for the wait, lmao. This one didn't want to be written on schedule. Hopefully 9k of basically pure smut makes up for that. This one got really feelsy on me. 
> 
> Title from Hozier's In the Woods Somewhere.

It’s high summer in Toussaint, which meant that it’s fucking miserably hot, and riding a horse, sharing her body heat, doesn’t help. Normally, Geralt doesn’t mind the heat - his mutations make him able to withstand most temperatures, barring the extreme, and he’s certainly faced far worse than a little bit of undesirable weather - but for some reason the last few weeks of travel have been especially grating, and Geralt is extremely tired of waking up tangled in his bedroll and soaked in sweat. The heat doesn’t help his senses, either, with every passing human reeking of days old sweat, and the aroma of rotting corpses emanating from the roadsides where the necrophages had been gathering clings to him now even days after he’d dispatched them. 

The heat has also left him short of temper, and as he listens to Jaskier wax on about his fellow bard companions, he finds his patience growing dangerously thin. 

“You should have seen him, Geralt!” Jaskier says gleefully, bouncing along down the road alongside Roach. “His voice was sweeter than berry wine, oh yes! He sang She Moved Through the Fair so well that I almost felt bad for winning, but well, perhaps the lad could use some humility,” he sighs. “Nearly as arrogant as he was beautiful, honestly, he had me flashing back to my Oxenfurt days with Valdo Marx, the utter bastard.” 

Geralt twitches. “Perhaps you could use some humility,” he mutters, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jaskier cast a bemused look up at him. “Oh ho, aren’t we in a mood today! Tell me, dearest, would you rather I have lost? I doubt you’ll be complaining when the coin it fetched me buys us our next few meals.”

Geralt sighs. They’d parted a few weeks ago outside of the city, Jaskier heading for a bardic competition that Toussaint hosted once a year, and Geralt heading towards the outskirts of the population to clean up a slew of necrophages that had been wreaking havoc after an unprecedented heat wave had claimed half a herd of cattle and a fair amount of travelers, their corpses drawing all the beasts in the area. It had been three days of slogging through heat and rotting cows, necrophage blood sizzling in the heat as it coated his silver sword, and then a very unpleasant ride back into town carrying nearly a dozen of the bastards heads to exchange for payment, and Geralt hadn’t even gotten the chance to rest or bathe before Jaskier had promptly gotten them thrown out of the inn when one of the bards who’d lost to him had seen fit to attack Jaskier, and Geralt had had to step in, which had frightened the innkeeper enough to throw them all out on their asses. It’s been hours now of walking and riding since, and Jaskier still has yet to stop extolling the virtues of all of his competitors - or one in particular, his next runner up who sang _oh so well_. 

“I’d have liked it,” he says pointedly, pushing away whatever ugly feeling is lurking in his chest, “if it had bought us a few more nights at that inn.”

Jaskier winces, his scent flaring towards guilt. “That I _am_ sorry about, darling, but in my defense I didn’t actually _start_ the fight.”

“No,” Geralt reluctantly agrees, shifting in his saddle, and Roach flicked an irritated ear at him. No doubt she’s getting tired of the heat, too. “It should only be a few more hours before the next inn.”

They walk in silence for a while, and Geralt is just starting to relax a little when Jaskier starts humming She Moved Through the Fair, strumming absently at his lute. “You know,” his Omega says, “I think Markus may shape up to be some serious competition, though he could use some work on his original compositions.”

Geralt grits his teeth. Hours and hours, and _Markus Markus Markus_ is all he’s heard. “Would you like to go back and give him advice?”

Jaskier frowns up at him. His face is damp with sweat, his pheromones pleasant and sweet, but Geralt isn’t calmed by it like he usually is. “What does that mean?” Jaskier asks, confused.

Geralt adjusts his grip on Roach’s reins, his palms sweaty like the rest of him. The sun won’t set for hours yet, and the next town is still a ways away. He needs to rest, to bathe, to cool off. He shifts in his saddle again. “Nothing,” he says tersely, and Jaskier mercifully lets it drop, though he doesn’t stop plucking at his lute.

They walk on. 

~

“There we go,” Jaskier breathes out as he lowers himself onto Geralt’s cock, his hands braced on the Witcher’s shoulders as he comes to rest in Geralt’s lap, both of them breathing hard as he bottoms out. It’s really far too hot to be doing this, their shared body heat only making his blood pulse hotter beneath his skin, but Geralt does nothing but pull Jaskier closer by the hips, grinding up against him and watching as Jaskier’s mouth opens in pleasure.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the Omega pants, rocking his hips in a slow, languid pace that makes Geralt’s muscles quake with impatience. Most days, he likes nothing more than slow, gentle sex, but he had spent a small eternity opening Jaskier up with his fingers, basking in the glow of watching his mate writhe as he fucked him with three fingers buried to the knuckle inside of his slick hole, and it had lit a fire deep in Geralt’s belly that Jaskier’s slow, teasing movements do little to quench.

“Jas,” he groans, and Jaskier laughs out a moan and lavishes his faces with hot, wet kisses. 

“Alpha,” he purrs, and Geralt’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. He’s so hard his belly button aches with it, his whole body one long line of tension, and he feels like he’s burning up as Jaskier starts biting lightly at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. The long, graceful line of Jaskier’s throat is right in front of his face, and Geralt can see the scar from their bond bite, surrounded by fresh bruises, and he can’t resist the urge to lean forward and lick a long stripe up Jaskier’s neck, tasting him, moaning. Jaskier smells like fresh, hot applecakes, a hint of spice like cinnamon or cloves beneath it, all sweet and sinful and lush, and it never fails to make Geralt dizzy with how much he wants him. 

“Darling,” Jaskier murmurs, catching his lips with his own, his nails rasping against Geralt’s chest, teasing his nipples, and Geralt rolls his hips up sharply, catching Jaskier’s answering cry of delight with his mouth. Everything is starting to go sharp and white-edged, his knot starting to swell as he gets closer to the edge, and he urges Jaskier on by lifting him up by the hips and pulling him back down, everything inside of him melting at the little hiccups of pleasure Jaskier lets out.

“Fuck,” Jaskier chokes, letting Geralt take over as he practically bounces him up and down on his cock, “Geralt! Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, _oh_ ,” he cries, so fucking wet and slick and tight, his skin hot and his hole hot and the room so fucking hot, the sound of Geralt’s cock sliding in and out of him completely obscene as Jaskier’s nails dig into his skin. “Please, Geralt, _fuck,”_ he chokes out, “ _Please.”_

“Jas,” Geralt rasps, leaning in sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier _screams_ , coming all over both of their stomachs as Geralt’s knot pops through the tight rim of muscle and swells, locking them together as Geralt’s orgasm wrenches through him blisteringly hot and fast, the feel of Jaskier clenching down on his knot leaving him shaking and moaning into Jaskier’s skin as he renews the bond bite. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier moans, resting his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Fuck,” Geralt echoes roughly, once he removes his teeth from the red mark on Jaskier’s throat, licking his lips to savor every last taste of him. 

Once his knot goes down far enough, Geralt gently lifts a dazed Jaskier off of his softening cock and lays him flat on his back on the bed, and then fetches a rag to clean them both up. Jaskier is already mostly asleep by the time Geralt falls back into bed beside him, and it’s far, far too hot to share a bed like this, but Geralt can’t resist pulling his mate closer, inhaling their mixed pheromones. Something relaxes inside of his chest, and he quickly drifts off to sleep himself, his arms still around Jaskier. 

He doesn’t have any nightmares.

~

Another day and another hunt, this time a group of nekkers bothering a small mining town. He finds far more of them than he’d expected, and he earns a bloody gash across his left thigh when he takes too long dispatching one and fails to turn in time to catch the last one before it reaches him. The wound isn’t terribly deep, and he has enough Swallow to toss back that it’s already mostly closed by the time he makes it back to the dust-strewn town, but his skin itches and his thigh muscle aches fiercely as he navigates Roach towards the stables. Irritation burns beneath his skin, at himself for being slow and at the mage for lying to him about exactly how many nekkers there were, and everything is still sharp-hot from the effects of his other decoctions. 

A hot summer shower begins to fall as Geralt guides Roach into the stable he’s renting, and to his surprise he finds Jaskier waiting for them both, a bag of apples under his arm as he croons tunes to the other horses with his lute across his lap where he’s perched on the floor between two of the stalls. When he spots them, his eyes light up. 

“There you are!” he says, exuberant but quiet, knowing full well that Geralt’s senses are still oversensitive from his hunt. 

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, depositing Roach’s hay at her feet, and Jaskier leans around Geralt’s shoulder to flick in a few apples on top which the horse immediately crunches between her teeth. He rests his elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt stills as his mate’s weight comes to rest on him, his scent washing over him. There’s a sheen of sweat on Jaskier’s forehead, and he smells like rain and hay and musty applecakes and sugar, and Geralt is transfixed by the bead of sweat that rolls lazily down the long, marked line of his throat. 

The heat he feels building inside of him has nothing to do with the weather, now, and he’s hard before he even realizes what his body is doing. He knows the moment Jaskier smells the change in his pheromones. He inhales sharply, his attention flashing from Roach to Geralt in a heartbeat, his eyes darkening with lust. His own pheromones spike, and Geralt _smells_ the rush of slick that leaves him, the way his scent sweetens, ripens. Geralt rests one hand on the swell of Jaskier’s hip, sliding it slowly around to grasp the bard’s ass, and Jaskier’s heart rate spikes in answer, his tongue coming out to lick his lips, and Geralt can’t help the urge to lean in and _lick_ the sweat from his mate’s throat.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Jaskier says, his knees weakening, but Geralt easily takes his weight by grasping his hips, easing him backwards until he’s pinned against the wall between the stalls. Outside, thunder cracks, lightning illuminating the shadows, and Jaskier whines with need, hitching one leg around Geralt’s hips and pulling the Witcher closer. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s throat, rolling his hips slow and teasing, an approving growl rumbling in his chest when he feels the hard length of Jaskier’s cock brush against his own where it strains against his trousers. He’s still wearing his armor, and his thigh is probably still bleeding, and it’s really abominably hot and humid in the sticky night as the summer rainstorm rattles the walls of the stables, but Geralt is hardly aware of anything beyond the heat beneath his skin, the sheer force of his need, the quivering, eager Omega in his arms.

“ _Mine,_ ” he says, and Jaskier moans obscenely loud, his quick and clever hands reaching down between them for the fastenings to Geralt’s trousers, but Geralt’s own hand flashes up in a second to grasp his wrist.

“Geralt,” his bard whines, only to choke out another moan as Geralt suddenly spins Jaskier around and shoves him, gently, face first against the wall, fitting himself seamlessly against the curve of the bard’s lovely ass and grinding against him where he’s damp even through the layers of his trousers and braies. _“Fuck, fuck,_ Geralt,” he pants, pushing back and rubbing himself against the bulge of Geralt’s covered cock, “c’mon White Wolf, _fuck_ me.”

Geralt _snarls,_ ripping through the lacing of his trousers and hissing when his aching cock pops free, his other hand hooking into both layers of Jaskier’s clothes and yanking them halfway down his legs where they bunch around his knees. The Omega widens his legs immediately, and Geralt rumbles with satisfaction as his scent hits the open air, slick and sweet and screaming at his Alpha instincts, telling him to claim, to fill him up, to _breed_. He presses himself against the length of Jaskier’s back, his mouth tender against the back of his neck as he nudges the head of his cock against Jaskier’s hole.

“Yes?” he murmurs against Jaskier’s throat, inhaling the scent of his skin. 

Jaskier can’t move where he’s pinned against the wall with his forearms braced above his head, but he does his best to push back and take more of Geralt’s cock anyways, shivering. “ _Geralt,”_ he rasps, and Geralt nearly loses his mind. _“Yes.”_

Geralt thrusts inside of him hard enough that the wall shakes, both of them shouting with it, a clap of thunder hiding the careless sounds of pleasure they make as Geralt starts to pinion his hips, fucking into the tight, slick heat of Jaskier’s hole hard and fast and ruthless, and Jaskier takes it so fucking well, moving his hips in tiny thrusts that’s all he can manage where Geralt’s tucked against him, doing his best to ride Geralt’s cock even as off balance as he is. 

Geralt feels like he’s _boiling_ , his blood hot and heavy inside of him and roaring in his ears as he reaches into the space between Jaskier’s body and the wall, palming Jaskier’s cock and jerking him fast and sudden, Jaskier’s whole body quacking as his chanting of Geralt’s name breaks down into wordless syllables, his cries breaking on a sob as Geralt rolls the head of his leaking cock between his thumb and forefinger before stroking him again, just the way he knows the bard likes it.

“ _Ger-Geralt,_ ” he gasps out, fucking himself into Geralt’s hand, his cock drooling wet droplets of pre-come over Geralt’s fingers, “' _m going to come.”_

Then Geralt leans in and bites him, and Jaskier screams so loud that all of the horses except for Roach startle, and everything goes white and soundless as Geralt empties himself inside of Jaskier, barely having the wherewithal to pull himself out just enough that Jaskier can’t lock his knot and leave them stuck in the stables like this where someone would be bound to catch them. Geralt grunts against Jaskier’s skin, satisfying the urge to knot Jaskier by sliding his thumb into Jaskier’s hole and swirling around his own come where it leaks out of the Omega.

Jaskier’s still shaking as he comes down from his own peak, and he whimpers a little bit when Geralt starts rubbing his thumb inside of him. “I can’t,” he moaned, “I can’t come again,” and Geralt reluctantly pulls his hand away, bringing his hand up to lick the taste of them off of his fingers. The fire beneath his skin barely feels like it’s been banked, and he wants nothing more than to push back into Jaskier’s welcoming heat, but he knows when Jaskier’s had enough, so instead he gingerly laces himself back up as Jaskier starts righting his own clothes with shaking hands. Geralt tries not to feel too smug about it.

“Well, that was certainly quite the late night fuck,” says Jaskier, his voice taking on a slightly dreamy note that does nothing to stem Geralt’s smugness. “What was that all about?”

Geralt thinks about it. Despite having been out hunting, despite the weather, despite the heat, and despite the faint ache in his thigh that is quickly returning to a dull roar now that his blood has left his cock, Geralt feels _marvelous._ He feels as though he could run for leagues, like he could fight a horde of griffons bare-handed, like he could bend Jaskier over and take him a half-dozen more times without tiring. He feels like he did that first day after he and Jaskier had become mates - like there exists nothing in the world that could dim his spirits. It’s exhilarating, and not a little bit worrying. 

“Hm,” says Geralt. “I just felt like it.”

What he really means, and what he suspects Jaskier hears, is _I don’t know._

“Well,” says Jaskier, grinning, grasping Geralt by the front of his armor and tugging him closer to purr right against his throat, filling up Geralt’s senses with the scent of a happy, relaxed Omega, “I’m definitely not complaining.”

~

Whatever madness had possessed him that night lingers, and for the rest of the summer, Geralt burns. Every time he has Jaskier, every time he scents him or knots him or reaffirms their bondmark, the heat inside of him only seems to build and build until all Geralt can think about at all hours of the day and night is fucking Jaskier through the floor. He wakes in the night, panting and hard and nudging Jaskier awake for a romp in their bedrolls only to come awake again hours later as the sun rises, his knot already half blown as he grits his teeth and takes himself in hand until Jaskier notices his plight and takes gleeful pity on him, sinking down onto his knot with a happy, rumbling purr and doing his utmost to ride Geralt straight into oblivion; and still, it isn’t enough. 

Jaskier, unsurprisingly, supports Geralt’s newfound appreciation for sex wholeheartedly. Their sex life has always - if you could call half a year of being bonded and only three shared heats _always_ \- been satisfactory, but now it’s like they’re both teenagers again, just discovering what pleasures their bodies are capable of, and they cannot get enough of each other.

 _The honeymoon phase,_ Jaskier calls it once, kissing the words into his neck as he still shakes from their lovemaking, incessantly verbal even while half-obliterated with pleasure. But Geralt is less sure. 

He feels like he’s been _bewitched,_ but he’s had enough spells placed on him that he knows what it feels like to be compelled, and this isn’t that. Besides, the feelings he’s experiencing aren’t _new_ \- he’s always wanted Jaskier even when he knew that it was foolish, knew that it was stupid, knew that the bard, even as annoying as he is, deserved better - it’s just that he’s never felt this overcome by them before. 

And he _is_ overcome. So much so that he finds it next to impossible to control himself; he becomes indulgent with it. He and Jaskier fuck in inns, in their bedrolls, against trees and rocks and stables and down shadowed hallways of the manors Jaskier drags him to to perform. He even starts fucking Jaskier right after returning from his hunts, with his eyes still potion-black and his skin white and cold as death, everything hotsharpbright. It’s a line that Geralt’s never crossed before - the last thing he wants to do is frighten Jaskier. But of course, his bard is hard to frighten - Jaskier _loves it,_ he loves him wild and sharp and monstrous, loves it when he stalks through the woods like some horrifying thing-of-the-night, hands bloodied and armor bloodied and terrifying, and picks him up so easily to press him against the rough bark of a tree trunk and fuck him hard and fast until they’re both reduced to animals sounds of pleasure and Jaskier has yanked a handful of his pale hair from his head, and they’ve both come again and again with wild howls of pleasure.

It is a line that he never imagined himself able to cross, but he does, and it doesn’t help that Jaskier _begs_ for it, and Geralt has never been terribly good at saying _no_ to Jaskier, especially when he presents himself like he does, so wet and eager and fucking _delighted._

And so they while away the summer doing their best to fuck each other stupid. Sometimes Geralt will catch Jaskier just as he steps out of a ravine where he had stopped to have a cool splash, the Omega glistening and damp and shimmering in the sunlight, and he will very gently tackle the bard into their bedrolls so that he can bury his face between Jaskier’s legs until he’s screaming and so drenched with his own slick that he’ll have to bathe a second time, and Geralt will join him, their bodies pressed close in the cool water and rubbing together sweetly while Jaskier hums and sighs and sings with pleasure. 

Sometimes Jaskier will have to stop in the middle of a performance after catching Geralt’s eyes because he _knows_ that look, oh he knows, and he will barely make it up the stairs and into their room before the Witcher has him bent over the foot of their bed, his trousers around his ankles and Geralt’s cock buried inside of him as far as it can go, and in the morning the other patrons will complain of a lack of sleep because of the way the headboard rattles so loudly against the walls all through the night. 

Sometimes Geralt pushes Jaskier onto his hands and knees in front of the fire that Jaskier insists upon lighting to dry their clothes after being caught in yet another summer thunderstorm, and Geralt will hold his hips so tightly that he knows that Jaskier will feel it for days to come, and Jaskier will gasp and plead and beg for _more, more, more Alpha_ as Geralt fucks him so hard that they both see stars and manhandles him so rough and gentle that he leaves carpet burns painted on his elbows and knees and cheek, as he sucks bruising kisses down the length of Jaskier’s spine while reaching around to stroke his cock, and then leaves stubble burn on the tender skin around his hole after he decides to lick his own come from the Omega’s spent form. 

And sometimes, on special nights when the fire in his gut dims down to a sweet, slow burn, Geralt will turn it gentle; he'll tug Jaskier into his lap with a tender look on his face, encouraging him to ride him slow and sweet with his hands braced along his powerful shoulders, their sweaty foreheads touching; or he’ll pull him close while they bathe together and kiss along Jaskier’s throat, tucking three fingers inside of him and working them until he wrings orgasm after orgasm from the bard and Jaskier is hoarse from shouting and the bath’s gone cold. Oftentimes he likes to take his time while he eats Jaskier out, kneeling at the foot of the bed between his open legs and licking and sucking at him until he’s reduced to a boneless, thoughtless mess and he’s soaked through the bedsheets with his pleasure once again. 

Altogether, it isn’t such a terrible way to spend the summer.

And then Posada happens. 

~

It isn’t the same pub that they met in, but it isn’t terribly distinguishable by sight, either. They’re in Upper Posada because Geralt heard about a possible wyvern sighting and the alderman was out for a few days, so they’re staying at a filthy little inn called Griffin’s Nest until they can speak to the man who saw the purported beast. Jaskier is having a good time, at the very least, delighted to be back to the little backwater hamlet that inadvertently caused his rise to fame with that accursed coin song. Geralt is trying really hard to be happy that Jaskier is happy, but he’s having a fairly difficult time with it.

For one thing, he had awoken this morning feeling as if he were on fire, and even the cool bath he took hadn’t helped. Despite the fact that summer is reaching its end, every last bit of the season’s heat seems to have burrowed under Geralt’s skin, and sitting in a crowded pub while everyone around him is clapping and stomping and singing along to Jaskier’s songs doesn’t help in the slightest. For another, he’d refused to forgo his armor when Jaskier suggested it.

“I’m a Witcher,” he’d said flatly, even as he sweated while shrugging on his pauldrons, and Jaskier knew him well enough by now to know when an argument was a lost cause, though he had pointedly rolled his eyes a few times anyways. 

Still, Geralt is rapidly starting to wish he’d listened to Jaskier, not that he’d ever tell the bard that - his head is already big enough as it is. But Geralt can put up with a little discomfort, with a little heat and a little overcrowding. He can deal with the ale that tastes like piss and the watery soup that the pub serves for dinner and he can even put up with hearing Toss a Coin three times when the drunken farmers beg for an encore. 

What Geralt is rapidly losing the ability to be calm about is the man sitting just in front of the table Jaskier is performing on. 

He’s an Alpha, only a touch shorter than Geralt himself, with buckwheat hair and a chiseled jaw, and he’s watching Jaskier with a singularly predatory gleam in his pale green eyes. He’s young, perhaps twenty, just at the right age for his hormones to be out of control, filling him with the need to claim a mate, to sire pups, to make a life and a name for himself. Every time Jaskier nears him as he dances and jigs along to his own music, the Alpha’s smirk widens, and Geralt doesn’t need to be a Witcher to smell the pheromones _radiating_ off the man.

Jaskier has noticed, too. Every so often, his gaze will flick to the Alpha as quick as lightning, fast enough to be indistinguishable from his engagement with the audience if Geralt wasn’t aware of every move Jaskier makes. Most of his attention is spent on his audience, spreading his notice equally across the adoring patrons, but every few verses his eyes will turn to meet Geralt’s, and Geralt can read his expression perfectly well from across the crowded room.

 _I see him,_ his bard says. _I can handle it._

And normally Geralt trusts him to do just that - Jaskier may look soft and gentle, and for the most part he _is,_ but he’s been Geralt’s companion for nearly twenty years and his lover for half of one by now, and Geralt has seen how perfectly well Jaskier can protect himself; more than one person who had thought it might be funny to insult the Witcher or cheat him out of a full payment for a job had found themselves at the business end of the dagger Jaskier keeps concealed up his left sleeve. Geralt himself had bought the little knife for him in the second year of their travels after the third time he’d had to rescue the bard from being murdered by a spurned wife or overprotective father. 

So Geralt knows Jaskier can take care of himself, that his mate has certainly faced much more dangerous things than one aggressive-smelling Alpha, but right now, with the heat robbing him of his sense and the pounding in his skull from the wall of sound around him, he finds himself braced at the edge of his seat, boiling in his anger, in his completely irrational jealousy, in his Alpha need to _protect._ _Mine, mine, mine_ pulses in his veins, faster than his slow heartbeat can pump his blood, and his grasp on his sword hilt - the steel one - is so tight that his knuckles have turned white. It’s ridiculous, and probably offensive to every Omega alive, too, but at the moment Geralt’s brain doesn’t have any room left in it for rationality. 

It probably would have come to nothing. Most nights they spend with Jaskier performing and Geralt watching ends the same way - with Geralt taking Jaskier to bed and the bard throwing himself at him, high on adrenaline and euphoria and desperate for touch. Any other night, and it would have happened just like that.

Except this time, when Jaskier finishes his last song and finally shrugs off the crowds plea for _one more, just one more,_ and hops down from his table, already smiling as he begins to stride towards Geralt, Geralt sees it out of the corner of his eyes - the rival Alpha, turning just as Jaskier passes him, one of his hands coming up, and Geralt realizes in the breadth of one second that the man intends to grab Jaskier by the ass, a claiming gesture no Alpha worth the name would ever force on an Omega, and in the time it takes for Jaskier to register the rage on his face, Geralt has already moved.

The next thing he’s aware of is the screaming, and Jaskier gripping his bicep tight enough to hurt, and when the blinding red haze lifts, Geralt realizes that he has the blonde Alpha by the neck, and that he’s pinned him down against the bar with the point of his sword jammed up against the man’s throat. The man’s face is turning purple, and he reeks of fear and piss, and Geralt is breathing so hard and fast that he might as well have just faced down a pack of wargs single-handedly.

The other patrons in the room are screaming, shrieking, and the Alpha’s friends are blustering as their drunk minds realize what’s happening and start reaching for their swords, but Geralt barely notices because Jaskier is there, pressed against his side and digging his fingers into his armored arm and saying, low and urgent, “Geralt, Geralt _stop,_ it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.”

Distantly, Geralt hears the barkeep fuming from where he’s stuffed himself as far away from Geralt as the limited space behind the bar will allow. “For gods’ sake!” he cries, smelling like anger and cold sweat and sour fear, “who in their right mind brings a rutting Witcher to a bar?”

Geralt’s slow pulse pounds in his ears. _A rutting Witcher._

The horror that strikes him then, the dawning realization, fills his head with white noise, and he doesn’t hear what Jaskier must say to the man in response; he only knows when Jaskier is gently cupping his wrist and urging him to let the sniveling Alpha go, and Geralt, lost in his own head and distracted by the sweetness of Jaskier’s pheromones and more importantly by his mate’s rising scent of _panic,_ lets Jaskier haul him through the room, babbling apologies and promises of free performances in the future as compensation, and then they’re out in the night air and Geralt can finally breathe.

There’s a cool, gentle breeze blowing away the last of the summer heat, and the smell of coming rain, and the dull hum of all the people in the buildings around them, but Geralt is barely aware of it. The cool air only makes him more aware of the heat beneath his skin, of the sweat dripping down his face and slicking the back of his neck, and he’s panting, breathing hard, doubling over and resting his hands on his knees as he tries to get a grip on himself. There’s a dull pain at the base of his spine that is beginning to grow, and now he knows what it is - his rut.

He can scarcely believe it. After the Trials, once Witchers are rendered infertile by the mutagens, they are rarely afflicted by ruts or heats - it’s been more than seven decades since he started out on his Path, and he can count on one hand how many ruts he’s had since then and still have fingers left over. He hasn’t had a single one since he met Jaskier, nearly two decades ago, now, and each time he _has,_ it’s been in the dead of winter, when he was safely installed in the crumbling keep of Kaer Morhen, when he had either had help from Lambert - an Omega - or at least Beta Vesemir or Alpha Eskel to lock him in his room for the duration and make sure to bring around food and water every few hours and make sure Geralt’s alright. It’s hardly a pleasant way to spend a rut, but Geralt’s had worse experiences.

And now, here he is, in the middle of fucking Posada in the middle of the fucking year, with no Witchers to keep him in check - only his very human, very _fragile_ Omega mate, who right now is cupping Geralt’s face and tugging him up, up, until Geralt is standing straight up and looking into worried blue eyes. There’s worry and alarm in Jaskier’s scent, but not an ounce of fear.

 _Run away,_ he tries to say, but nothing comes out.

They haven’t even talked about this. Geralt hadn’t thought it would be an issue - even if Jaskier accompanied him to Kaer Morhen in the winter like Geralt has been hoping the bard will agree to, and even if the rare season came when Geralt goes into rut, Geralt had always taken it for granted that he would have at least one other Witcher there to make sure he doesn’t do anything he’d regret. No one in the pack would let anything happen to Jaskier - they may not know him, but they’ve heard enough about Jaskier from Geralt to know just how important the bard is to him, and they still don’t know that Geralt’s gone and mated him, yet. Geralt had naively assumed that they’d have time - years, even - to talk about this before it became an issue.

But right now, Geralt is beyond talking. He’s nearly beyond thinking. All he can focus on is the pain in his gut, the throb between his legs, the way every molecule of his body is screaming at him to pull Jaskier closer and scent him, mark him, breed him.

Which is why Geralt grits his teeth and forces himself to take a step back from Jaskier, shrugging off his hands and breathing as shallowly as he can manage to avoid Jaskier’s pheromones, always strong and sweet when he’s around Geralt anyway, but now they’re flaring in response to Geralt’s own rut hormones, and the scent of sweet, crumbling applecakes is more than he can bare.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says very quietly, reaching out towards him but not closing the distance Geralt’s placed between them. Everything in Geralt wants nothing more than to drop to his knees right there and nuzzle himself into that hand. 

“You need to go,” Geralt manages, more growl than words. 

Jaskier blinks. “Are you insane? You’re in _rut_! Geralt, for Melitele’s sake, why didn’t you tell me you were close to your rut?”

Geralt breathes hard through his nose, trying to block everything out, especially his own body. “Didn’t know.”

“Didn’t -” Geralt can see how he’s thrown Jaskier for a loop. Why isn’t the bard running yet? But Jaskier only shakes his head, taking a tiny step closer, boxing Geralt in where he’s standing with his back to the bar’s wall in the alley outside. Geralt feels a surge of panic, heat and alarm skittering beneath his skin. “We need to get back to the inn,” Jaskier says, oblivious to Geralt’s reaction, already forming a plan of action. “Geralt, sweetheart, can you walk?”

Geralt makes himself take a deep, shuddering breath, so that his next words are as clear and level as he can make them. “Jaskier, you need to go. Go back to the inn. I’ll find you in a few days.” _When this is over,_ he doesn’t add, but Jaskier hears it.

His mate’s eyes narrow. “You really think that I’m going to go back to our room and twiddle my thumbs while you - what, go suffer alone in the middle of the woods?”

Geralt purposely doesn’t say anything, and Jaskier’s eyebrows go up in disbelief. “ _Seriously?”_ he says, much too loudly. “That is, without a doubt, the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard you come up with, and I’m counting that time you used yourself as bait to catch that wyvern.”

Geralt winces. “It’s not safe,” he says, and his gut flares hot and sharp with pain. He’s so hard that he’s starting to worry for the state of his trousers. They aren’t exactly the most structurally sound garments in the world after all the times he’s had to patch them up after a hunt. 

Jaskier snorts. “If I was interested in safety, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” His face softens, and Geralt holds his breath when Jaskier closes the distance between them and cups his face again, sweeping his thumbs over Geralt’s cheekbones. Even that little amount of touch nearly has Geralt’s legs giving out beneath him. “Besides,” Jaskier continues, his voice gentle, his scent the sweetest thing Geralt has ever known, “I know that you could never hurt me.”

“I could,” Geralt whispers. Even the thought of it is too much to bear. 

Jaskier leans forward until their foreheads touch, and Geralt shivers all the way down to his toes. “You could,” Jaskier allows, “but I know you, my Geralt, my Alpha, my wolf. You will never hurt me, and you will never scare me away.”

Geralt swallows heavily. “Jaskier,” he says helplessly.

Jaskier touches a thumb to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt lets out a rumbling moan from deep within his chest. Jaskier’s eyes darken at the sound. “Alpha,” he murmurs, and this time Geralt _growls._ “Come back to the inn with me. Let me take care of you. I promise you that everything will be just fine.”

And Geralt - Geralt should say no. He should push Jaskier away and run for it. He should refuse. 

But Geralt has never been good at saying no to Jaskier.

He grasps Jaskier’s hand, the one touching his mouth, and presses a kiss to the inside of the Omega’s wrist right over his scent glands, and he feels more than hears Jaskier’s answering moan. 

“Alright,” Geralt says, “alright.”

~

Geralt isn’t entirely certain how they make it back to the inn. 

One moment he’s leaning against the wall in a dinghy alley, and then he blinks and they’re back in their tiny, cramped room. He’d normally be a lot more worried about his lapse in awareness, except that as soon as the door is closed behind them Jaskier is pushing him back against it with surprising strength - or maybe Geralt is simply weak for Jaskier and Jaskier alone - and sliding his tongue into Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt decides that thinking is overrated, anyways.

It’s brutally hot indoors, away from the cool breeze still blowing outside, and Jaskier’s hands leave trails of brighter, sharper heat where they come to rest against Geralt’s neck, the bard’s thumb pressing against his scent glands along the curve of his throat and making Geralt’s head spin. He tries to get some leverage, to deepen the kiss, to take control, but Jaskier clearly has some kind of plan here and doesn’t relinquish his hold, and Geralt is too weak to do anything but rest against the door and let Jaskier kiss all the sense right out of his head.

“Here,” murmurs Jaskier against his mouth, “let’s get you out of this,” and starts to reach for the fastenings to Geralt’s armor, as familiar to him by now as they are to Geralt. Geralt tries to help, but Jaskier gently bats his hands away until he gives up and lets himself be undressed, piece by piece, moaning helplessly and dropping his head back against the door as Jaskier’s mouth begins to explore more and more of his skin as it’s exposed. 

He thought he’d be cooler with his armor off but he only feels hotter, feels like he’s running through a forest fire or dancing on the surface of the sun, everything hazy and red and throbbing, his skin slick with sweat and his cock so hard that his whole gut throbs with every breath he takes, the pain at the base of his spine lighting up his body like a bolt of lightning, and all Geralt can do is stand there, trembling, as Jaskier kneels in front of him, the last bits of his clothing - his braies - being tossed aside as the bard nuzzles his face against the sharp line of Geralt’s hip, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the trail of hair below his belly button.

“ _Jaskier,”_ he says, his voice breaking on the plea, and he nearly jumps right out of his skin when Jaskier takes his cock in his hand, the immediate pleasure so blindingly bright that it’s borderline painful, and he grits his teeth as hard as he can to keep from shouting.

“Shh,” Jaskier whispers, just loud enough for Geralt to hear him. “I’ve got you,” he says.

Then he opens his mouth and guides Geralt’s cock between his lips, and everything disappears into white noise.

No, not everything. There are things that break through to the surface of his thoughts, little points that ground him, that keep him from collapsing into himself: Jaskier’s hands, somehow rough and gentle at the same time where they hold Geralt by the hips, his nails digging into Geralt’s skin and bringing sweet blooms of pleasure-pain to the surface; Jaskier’s hair, smooth beneath his hands, damp with sweat at the temples from the exertion of his performance; the noises Jaskier makes, little hums and moans and delicate bird-notes of pleasure that he can’t quite contain as he sucks at the head of Geralt’s cock and moves one hand to wrap lute-callused fingers around Geralt’s half-blown knot; the sound his cock makes, wet and obscene, as Jaskier bobs his head and takes him deeper and deeper.

When the tip of his cock is finally swallowed down Jaskier’s throat, when the bard has him all the way until his nose is pressed against Geralt’s knot, there is nothing in the world that could have kept him from coming, and so he does, noisily and desperately and far too loud, only his rigorous Witcher training keeping him standing upright as he shakes through it, and when Jaskier takes both his hands and _squeezes_ Geralt’s knot, he thinks for a moment that he really will bring the walls down around them with how loud he shouts.

It takes a frustratingly long time for his knot to go down while he’s rutting, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, just coaxes him through it with sweet swipes of his tongue up and down his cock, darting out to taste his knot and smiling when that makes Geralt swear, licking every drop of come from Geralt’s skin that dripped out of his mouth. When Jaskier finally relinquishes him and stands up, Geralt finds that he can actually think again, that the fire in his blood has, at least for one moment, died out enough for him to take a deep breath for the first time this evening. 

Jaskier smiles, stroking his warm hands up Geralt’s still quivering stomach. “Feeling better?” he asks. He hasn’t even undressed yet. Geralt can see how hard he is, can _smell_ how wet he is. Now that he’s back in control of his own body, Geralt wraps one arm around the bard’s waist and reels him in closer, burying a grimace at how rough even Jaskier’s fine doublet feels against his oversensitive skin.

But Jaskier catches the twitch anyways. “Come on,” he says, and Geralt releases him automatically when the Omega leans away, but Jaskier only steps back a little, taking Geralt’s hand and tugging him, and Geralt lets himself be manhandled with gentle affection until he’s laying on his back in the center of the bed, his head propped on both pillows. Geralt expects Jaskier to climb in next to him, but the bard instead presses Geralt down by his chest in a wordless order to stay put, and then disappears out of Geralt’s vision.

Geralt wants so badly to move, to see where Jaskier has gone, but the fire has started to grow once more and he simply cannot do anything but obey his Omega, inhaling as deeply as he can to breathe in as much of Jaskier’s sweet pheromones as possible - they’re not quite as rich as they are when the bard is in heat, but Geralt’s rut has clearly triggered some sympathy-heat out of him, and Geralt wants nothing more than to roll around and bathe in the pheromones that Jaskier has left behind after sleeping here overnight, and he can’t resist the urge to twist his head and press it to the topmost pillow, Jaskier’s pillow, moaning shamelessly at the smell of hot applecakes and cinnamon and lust and _love._

“Oh, _darling,_ ” Jaskier says, jerking Geralt’s focus back to the present, where Jaskier has disrobed down to his braies and is holding something in his hands. “Here,” he says, perching on the bed at Geralt’s side and laying something over his forehead - a cold compress, and Geralt moans in appreciation as the damp cold helps clear away some of the heat throbbing through him. Jaskier drops a kiss to his shoulder, one hand massaging Geralt’s chest. “Is that better?”

Geralt finally manages to find his voice. “Yes,” he rasps, laying his hand over Jaskier’s and holding it over his heart, their fingers twining together. “Better.”

A soft chuckle. “I see we’re even more monosyllabic than usual tonight.” Geralt starts to squirm, but Jaskier presses a second hand against his chest and he goes still. “You don’t have to talk, my wolf. As long as you let me know if you need to stop, or if you need anything else, I hereby grant you a free pass to be as quiet as you like. Can you do that for me?”

Geralt takes a deep breath. He can taste the cool well water Jaskier used to dampen the towel, and beneath it he can taste the soap the scullery maid uses. His senses are both overworked and quiet, his skin hypersensitive and touch-starved at once. He feels both outside of his body and far, far too much inside of it. A part of him wants to find some cool, dark place to hide until he feels less vulnerable. The far larger and much louder part of him wants Jaskier to never, ever stop touching him. 

“I can do that,” he says, squeezing Jaskier’s hand gently to make sure the bard knows that he actually heard him.

Jaskier leans over to peck him on the lips, far too briefly. “Good,” he says in a voice so soft that it makes something warm and liquid bubble up in Geralt’s stomach. He wants, more than anything, to be good for Jaskier. He _wants._ As if he can read Geralt’s mind, Jaskier nudges his chin with his nose, kissing sweetly along the column of his throat, and says, “What a good Alpha you are, my sweet, darling Wolf.”

Geralt shudders all over, his cock perking up, and Jaskier grins wickedly when he sees it. “Oh, you like that?” he says, his fingers trailing across Geralt’s chest, tracing the scars that mar his skin and tweaking his nipples, making Geralt hiss and groan. “Do you like it when I tell you what a wonderful Alpha you are, my dear? How good you are for me?”

Geralt feels like he can’t breathe. The fire roars in his belly. “Jaskier,” he says, his voice weak and hoarse. “Jaskier.” He can’t seem to say anything else. 

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier vows, leaning back and stripping off his braies, and Geralt nearly chokes on his own desire as his greedy hands come up to grasp Jaskier’s bare hips, pulling him over until he’s kneeling over Geralt’s cock. There is nothing Geralt wants more than to bury himself inside of Jaskier until his rut subsides, but the last vestiges of his sanity override that impulse, reminding him that he hasn’t so much as prepped the bard - Jaskier could take him without prep if he was in heat, no question, but outside of heat most omegas, especially males, needed at least some attention beforehand to avoid discomfort. Geralt feels drugged, his whole body heavy and throbbing, but he’s still stronger than Jaskier even now, so it’s nothing at all for him to lift Jaskier up, up, until he’s guiding Jaskier’s thighs over his shoulders and bringing the bard down to lick into his slick crease.

The moment his tongue breaches Jaskier’s puckered hole, Jaskier shouts, his thighs clenching around Geralt’s ears, and Geralt moans as he’s assaulted by the taste of his Omega, richer and sweeter and purer here than anywhere else, and he pushes his tongue as deep inside of Jaskier as he can, desperate to drown himself in his slick, the best thing Geralt has ever tasted in his life. His pulse roars in his ears, and he tongues at Jaskier as filthy and loving as he knows how, greedy for the way that Jaskier’s slick starts to drip down his chin and sticks to his throat, his collarbones, and Jaskier’s screams grow louder and louder as he fucks himself on Geralt’s tongue, his hands braced on the headboard and his whole body rigid with tension beneath Geralt’s grasp as he tilts his hips until the point of Geralt’s tongue is hitting that deliciously sensitive spot inside of him with every thrust.

“ _Oh - ah - I - Geralt,_ ” Jaskier sobs out, grinding down against Geralt’s mouth as hard as he can, and Geralt feels it the moment Jaskier comes, his tongue suddenly being squeezed and clenched down on as Jaskier pulses around him in waves, a wet splash atop his head making him groan into Jaskier’s crease as the bard’s come starts to drip down his hair, the combined smell of them both setting Geralt aflame more than ever. 

Jaskier is still shuddering when he crawls off of Geralt’s face, and Geralt practically _purrs_ when he sees the dazed, fucked-out look on his face, the come smearing his belly and the way his wet thighs won’t stop shaking as he collapses next to Geralt with a groan. “ _Fuck,_ ” he wheezes. “How are you still so good at that while out of your mind on rut pheromones?”

Geralt just rumbles happily, rolling over and pinning Jaskier to the bed beneath him, Jaskier’s sweaty back plastered against his front. “Little lark,” he murmurs, nosing at the damp curls that stick to Jaskier’s neck. 

Jaskier sighs, pushing his hips back until Geralt’s cock is rubbing along the skin behind his balls. “Wolf,” he murmurs.

When Geralt pushes into him, slow and reverent, they moan together, and Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s neck as he starts to thrust, slow and easy, into the welcoming heat of Jaskier’s body. Despite the desperate burn of need building underneath his skin, Geralt keeps it slow, their bodies pushing and pulling together in a smooth roll that tears little sighs and hums of happiness from Jaskier’s throat as he clenches himself around Geralt’s cock. Jaskier has his head resting on his crossed forearms, his eyes closed, and he looks like something out of Geralt’s sweetest fever dreams, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek and his lips parted around soft moans that hitch every time Geralt bottoms out inside of him. Geralt keeps his eyes on Jaskier’s face, wanting nothing more than to memorize this moment, wanting nothing more than to _live_ in this moment for the rest of their lives, but he can feel his gut tightening and his knot starting to swell, and Jaskier’s moans grow richer, deeper, when his knot starts dragging against the rim of his whole with every thrust.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier breathes, as sweet as honeyed mead, and Geralt comes apart at the seams, his arms shaking with the effort of holding his weight as he pushes his knot into Jaskier’s body and seals them together, and Jaskier groans with his whole body as he peaks around Geralt’s popped knot, sending aftershocks rippling through Geralt as he fills the bard up with his come; cool, blessed relief washes through him where a moment ago he’d been burning, and he nearly cries as the painful throb in his bones subsides into something softer, a flickering ember that’s soothed by the cradle of Jaskier’s body around his aching knot. 

Carefully, so carefully, he rolls them over until they are laying on their sides, Geralt curled around Jaskier’s trembling form, their legs tangled together and their skin so tightly pressed together that Geralt, for a moment, cannot tell where he ends and Jaskier begins. 

Jaskier bares his throat. “Please,” he begs. “ _Please.”_

Geralt has never been good at saying no to Jaskier. He leans in and buries his teeth in their bond mark, and everything inside of him dissolves into the heat of the sweetest fire. 

~

He takes Jaskier nearly a dozen more times before his rut finally ends, much sooner than it would have if he hadn’t had his bonded Omega present. It’s nothing like any rut that Geralt has ever had - he barely has a thought or need in his head before Jaskier is seeing to it, taking care of him with warmth and surety and so much love that Geralt can hardly stand it, and by the end of it Geralt is certain that no Alpha has ever been happier in their entire life than he is when Jaskier collapses on his chest, their bodies sweat-soaked and overly warm and perfect where they are pressed together from head to toe. 

They are also completely filthy; Geralt isn’t sure that there is a single inch of this bed _or_ their bodies that isn’t covered in come, and so when the haze of his rut does finally dissipate completely, Geralt rolls Jaskier onto his back and sets about cleaning the bard with his tongue, his jaw sore from eating Jaskier out again and again, his body as loose and relaxed as Jaskier is, sprawled out lazily beneath him.

Geralt sucks love bites into Jaskier’s hips, avoiding the bard’s no doubt overstimulated cock where it lays soft and spent against his thigh, and hums with joy as Jaskier’s fingers start to comb through his filthy, matted hair. 

“Gonna have to take a dozen baths after this,” Jaskier mumbles, his words stretching around a yawn; neither of them has slept more than two or three hours at a time in a few days. 

“Mm,” Geralt says, kissing the bruises that litter Jaskier’s thighs, soothing them with his tongue. 

Jaskier’s fingernails scratch his scalp, and Geralt rumbles softly. “You know,” Jaskier says, barely above a whisper, “if we keep on, our ruts and heats might eventually sink up. At least some of the time, anyways. I doubt you’ll ever have as many ruts as I do heats, but… we might be able to, y’know, share.” Geralt raises his head, moving up the bed to lay beside the bard. Jaskier rolls over and presses his face against Geralt’s chest. “Would you like that?”

Geralt exhales. “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier raises up to give him a startled look. “What?”

“This winter,” he says. “Come to Kaer Morhen with me. Meet my family. You can have your heat there, and if I go into rut again…”

Jaskier is silent for a long moment, and then reaches up to tenderly cup Geralt’s face in one hand. “You would want that?”

Words aren’t easy for Geralt, but for Jaskier - “More than anything,” he says.

Jaskier leans in and kisses him, nothing like the desperate surge of their mouths like during Geralt’s rut but a sweet, wondering brush of their lips. When he pulls back, there are tears shimmering in his cornflower blue eyes. Geralt could drown in the ocean of his happiness, of _Jaskier’s_ happiness. “I want that, too,” Jaskier says. “More than anything.”

And so Geralt pulls him close again, and they somehow find the energy to make love again - not because they need to but because they want to.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have vague plans for more of this series, but as always, no promises that it will be written soon/ever. I hope you enjoyed this ridiculously horny-feral mess.


End file.
